Hemlock Shakes
by Raihu
Summary: Axel x Xemnas x Marluxia: One day in my garden.


_For anon, on kokanshu's KH kink meme._

A/N - I should know better, but I've decided I want to try expanding this. Multichapter, multichapter, how you seduce. So against my better judgement, the _Fuck Revolution_ arc is born. Don't worry, no one needs to care. Warnings for **language**,** non-con**, **good times (ie. moderate porns) in general**, and especially **damn your goddamn grammar, fix it**.

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_Hemlock Shakes

Down in the sultry, stale heat of the hedge maze. Dead center, of course, because that's the first place anyone would go, which makes it the last place anyone would look. Axel is mostly clothed, sitting in full sunlight and he can very nearly hear his skin hissing as it cooks, but he doesn't mind. The sensation is abstractly soothing, a molten march of ants up and down his limbs to remind him: _here they are here they are._ It's the smell that bothers him. Rose petal dust thickens the air, riding on the sharp, mingled scent of juniper, cypress, crushed cedar, blooming jasmine; and underneath is a wet dash of feral musk filling up his sinuses like liquid fever. Impossible to breathe, unless he thinks about it. Impossible to breathe, unless he -

"Your turn."

"I can't breathe," Axel complains, but peels his sticky clothing away dutifully.

Marluxia rolls aside; his hips glisten and the stink of sex runs rampant, cutting a clean path through sensory excess and the whisper of autumn rot. Axel inhales hastily, then feels vaguely ill. But it is, at least, better than the cool, blue slope of _oh no no, you're asphyxiating again._

"Breathing has nothing to do with it," Marluxia says, then tosses his head in a way that makes his hair rustle like tulip petals, a sound Axel simply can't abide.

"Fine." His skin is still crackling. "All right."

And he can't say that he hasn't been looking forward to the thing. In fact, he finds himself with a rather thunderous erection, so he reaches for Xemnas and mounts him quickly, faltering only briefly and only because it's odd to be met with no resistance.

"Attaboy," Marluxia says idly. He lies down in the grass to watch.

Axel doesn't really hear him and Axel certainly doesn't care about privacy. In the close, drooling heat and the constricting grip of rosewater ambience, that first, heavy second is ripe like an unblemished peach. The giddy shock of penetration unravels and spools on and on for hours and miles and he sinks right in without a second thought.

The second thought occurs to him a second later. Moisture is already slicking his body; it's a body that seems to know what it wants. The rational minority isn't so blessedly sure. This is, for one thing, not really teaching anyone a lesson. This is, for another, _Xemnas_; which is technically the point but it made a lot more sense back in the planning stage, out of the humidity, away from the rich scent of woods and burned vanilla, and his sweat smells _awfully_ good up so close, in long, languid contact smearing between the two of them as if that's what it was always for.

Tawny skin. Having never really thought about it, Axel decides that he likes the combination: smoky bronze skin and colourless hair, and it would be even nicer if it didn't unnerve him quite so much but he's not going to let a little thing like that distract him, no.

His muscles flex and release. Something low in his crotch knots and begins to pulse.

Xemnas is slender. Stark line of the collarbone. Ribs rising against his flesh like knives.

A cloud passes over the sun, the heat's retreating; _the limbs where are the limbs where._

Most of all, those vitrolic orange eyes, turned elsewhere, disassociating shape from meaning, there is something very very wrong with his eyes.

They're still savage.

They're still -

They shut and Xemnas twitches, arcing smoothly and violently backward. A quick spray of semen. It spreads over their stomachs and hipbones, and the environmental intoxication makes that and the strong, sporadic clutching of his body feel much better than Axel would ever have guessed. He comes, still squeezed tight inside, a great roiling warmth easing open and moving out of him. And he twists and undulates gracelessly, but that's what they wanted all along, isn't it?

No. Maybe. Revolution was supposed to be about subversive persuasion, and passionate wrath, and always the risk of having your head sliced off in a burning rush, always. So; maybe.

"You know," Axel says, and jumps at the sound of his own voice; "if Saïx ever finds out."

And he laughs lightly, because Saïx had better not find out, not for a while.

Marluxia coughs amusement back at him, though it wasn't really a joke, wasn't funny, and even if it was, how would they know? Glassy-eyed, he squirms up close to them, tulip-petal hair slithering. He is alive with thorny edges, his skin is like wax. Axel flinches away from him irritably, pulling his cock free with a wet, unpleasant slurp; Xemnas actually looks at him, takes the time to focus. Marluxia pushes strands of pale hair out of those molten metal eyes, and withdraws his hand a little too quickly when they coalesce and catch him there.

"Superior," he says, gently derisive, and dusts his face with the fragment of a rose.

Xemnas doesn't answer; can't, really, unless you count the eyes as they fill with quiet, avaricous satisfaction, slicing horizontally. Slowly, he turns back to Axel and smiles very faintly.

Which is exactly enough to prod Axel in all the wrong places. He gets up and grabs his clothes and starts to drag them over the muck and slime drying to a thin crust on his skin.

"Oh, come on," Marluxia says, cajoling as he palms the soft, wet inside of Xemnas' thigh. "Think of the Romans. You don't want to disappoint."

He takes off down a narrow corridor to the left, with woven walls and threads of thorny creepers. Scarlet roses chuckle in his ears, chewing until there's blood. An idea: find that girl, Alice. She was young and pretty and easily dominated by the fine-struck look of her. Wandering the labyrinth of summer and heatstroke, he tries not to see brimstone eyes glinting in every shadow, the cool overhang of a supple branch, the dusty alcove.

What he finds is the center of the maze. It's the last place he wanted to go, so it's the first place he discovers.

Empty. Darker than he remembers, even when clouds embraced the sun.

He stands there for a minute, waiting, then turns back and heads right.

The central clearing, dead ahead, filled with bones; then black, squalling pigeons teeming like pestilence on every branch; then Marluxia, laughing politely at a large bellflower that has begun to digest the lower half of his body; then Xemnas raping Marluxia (_that's_ not quite the one); and then, Xemnas, naked and alone.

Reflexively, Axel calls him: _Superior._ Something swells in the back of his mouth; it tastes bitter when he swallows it down. Probably scorn.

"I don't think so," Xemnas replies. Pale hair hanging over his face, the long muscles in his back flickering like dusty moths.

"No. Shut up, shut up. It can't be that easy, or we would have done it sooner."

That makes him lift his head and peer through the hair like scraps of winter clinging to old carrion. One keen, orange eye in the cruel shape of a grin.

"What?" Axel asks, warily.

"Take me back home, Number Eight. I want to go back home."

"There is no home. You told us that. Home is nowhere."

"Yes, there."

Axel looks out at all the possible pathways, gaps in the hedgeway where the thicket grows thin, the bleeding green avenues with leaves like tiny flickering tongues and all the rows of turgid, hemoglobin red roses pushing slyly from their stems to leer at him.

And Axel bares his teeth and brims with fire. "Fuck revolution."


End file.
